To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise
In hymns of ado­ra­tion,
To Thee bring sac­ri­fice of praise
With shouts of ex­ul­ta­tion.
Bright robes of gold the fields ad­orn,
The hills with joy are ring­ing,
The val­leys stand so thick with corn
That ev­en they are sing­ing.

And now, on this our fes­tal day,
Thy boun­te­ous hand con­fess­ing,
Upon Thine al­tar, Lord, we lay
The first­fruits of Thy bless­ing.
By Thee all hu­man souls are led
With gifts of grace su­per­nal;
Thou, who gives us our daily bread,
Give us the bread eter­nal.

We bear the bur­den of the day,
And often toil seems dreary;
But la­bor ends with sun­set ray,
And rest comes for the wea­ry.
May we, the an­gel reap­ing o’er,
Stand at the last ac­cept­ed,
Christ’s gold­en sheaves, for­ev­er­more
To garners bright elected.

O bless­èd is that land of God
Where saints ab­ide for­ev­er,
Where gold­en fields spread fair and broad,
Where flows the crys­tal river.
The strains of all its ho­ly throng
With ours today are blend­ing;
Thrice bless­èd is that har­vest song
Which ne­ver hath an end­ing.